Of The Line Of Estelondo: Percival's Tale.

Chapter 18: Onward Rises The Dawn

  Water.

Water. Cold and wet. yet life preserving,
prolonging those who are undeserving,
and reap the new world of its own treasure,
wealth beyond gold, beyond any measure.

Yet it is just, as all nature should be,
unrestrained by duty; so wholly free,
that all those who seek it shall find it there,
in The Xitalmar, Nenquendië Fair.

Yet as it gives, it also takes away,
in through its inlet, out through the South Bay,
its rapids happ'ly bubbling in its brooks
carry dirt and sediment 'round its hooks.

Though crystal clear in so many places,
its cold depths reveal so many faces,
its darkness beckons, the drowned are calling
from the streams where our own Heir is falling.

Face up, young one, your time is still so far,
when you shall swim neath Estelondo's star,
The time is still far off for your pale death,
you will not here breathe out your final breath.

So clearly selfish is the root you took,
to choose to drown in our own Bonnie brook,
take a hopeful gasp, take in some fresh air,
Arise now, Métimafoa, our Living Heir.

"And Awake! Awake!" We cry out "Awake!"
You must live for the Elven Kingdom's sake,
Let not our murky voices drown in vain,
the path back home you must ever maintain.  

Métimafoa sat up in bed, the candlelight glistening off of the sweat he had perspired over the course of his nightmare. The room he was in was well furnished, with a bed, dresser, nightstand and mirror. Through his low, pulsing headache, he could barely get a single thought through, but by rubbing his temples he managed to reduce the pain to an ignorable level. It was only then that his deepest fears were confirmed; it had not all been a dream. His sister, Orónëminya, was dead.

Tears began to fall like raindrops on dew-laden grass in the early morn, as Métimafoa cried out for his sister; the girl who had raised him from a young age, who had been the only one he had really known for well over two thousand years. His cries were silent, the words and noise washed away by the waters of Nenquendi, floating down the Tributary which he and his sister had dwelt near had robbed him of his voice, at least temporarily. No home, no family, no future, no past. Only dreams and nightmares to remind me of the things that haunt me. He curled up in the fetal position, weeping heavy tears into the wool-stuffed pillow.

His tears had dried as morning approached but it was not long after that he heard voices from the downstairs of the tavern, or at least, that is where he suspected he was at. The voices he heard were low but tense, and his curiosity battled his mourning before his curiosity won out and he crept from the bed, to see what the voices were saying. As he exited his room and stood in the hallway that led to the stairs, he heard a voice saying: "Cannae stay here withoot payin'. My heart goes oot tae the lad, it really does, but I cannae afford tae let everyone wi' a sob story stay free o' charge. A'm Tryin' tae run a business here, Rainëwen."

"One room will not put you out of business, Nuirmoir," she replied, her voice causing even as strong of a man as Nuirmoir to take a nervous step back. Then her entire demeanour changed. "Look, Nuirmoir, if it is that big of a deal, just take it out of my wages, until I can get him set up at my place."

"Careful, Rainëwen. This man is nae more than a stranger tae ye; cannae hae ye becomin' disreputable, eh?" He paused, and judging by the sounds of chugging and a belch that followed, Métimafoa was willing to deduce that Nuirmoir had just drained his glass.

"I am a half-elf, Nuirmoir," she acknowledged quietly. "There are people in this world who find that to be of ill repute. If I am going to be judged for this; at least I will be being judged for doing that which is right, and the mistake will be on the heads of everyone who makes assumptions about the company I keep." There was another pause and the sound of a glass slamming on the table, followed by a laugh from the semi-intoxicated tavern owner.